


Lady of Winterfell

by aesthetically



Category: Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: AU where arya knows what theon did/knows what roose did, F/M, Ramsay is His Own Warning, Slow ass burn, a lot of me feeling bad for theon, arya is a vengeful bitch, can everyone tell what relationships i like to write/explore
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-10-09
Updated: 2018-10-08
Packaged: 2019-07-28 11:08:59
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,859
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16240391
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/aesthetically/pseuds/aesthetically
Summary: Arya comes home for revenge, but nothing for her ever really goes according to plan.





	Lady of Winterfell

prologue. 

_ Cersei. Walder Frey. The Mountain.  Ilyn Payne. The Red Woman. _

Arya whispers this like a prayer. Then, she takes another breath: 

_ Roose Bolton.  _

His name is like water and wine to parched lips. He will atone for his crimes against her family, against her home. 

Winter is coming, whether he’s ready for it or not.

 

i.

“I need a horse.”

“You don’t have the money for it, girl.”

“I  _ need _ a horse.”

“And I  _ need _ gold—you can have one when you’ve got it.”

She considers killing the man and stealing  _ all _ his horses out of spite. That would teach him, she thinks, frustrated beyond all belief. Three horse merchants in one day, and none kind enough to lend his worst  _ pony _ for her coin. 

“I’ve got steel,” she spits, and before he can even blink, Needle is lodged deep in his stomach.  

Arya smirks as she mounts his best steed.

 

ii.

At night, she fantasizes about flaying him alive.

_ Their blades are sharp? _ She scoffs—they haven’t seen hers, they haven’t  _ felt _ hers.

How will she start? What does she say? What goes  _ first _ ?

Her heart pounds violently in anticipation.

 

iii.

“The Ironborn surrendered, I hear,” starts a man at an innkeep. “Theon Greyjoy himself convinced them.”

Arya forgets to breathe.

The name stirs something inside her (anger, betrayal, hurt,  _ homesickness _ ); she thought him long gone.

Years ago, she looked upon him fondly for helping her man a bow and arrow, for never chastising her for rough play. He was funny, he was kind—Robb called him  _ brother _ . 

“It must’ve made the flaying a little easier for the Bolton bastard.”

“Hah, the flaying was so good he’s no longer a bastard!” 

The men laugh and drink and move on to smaller matters. 

Arya considers the complications. 

 

iv.

When Winterfell is close, there’s a tightening in Arya’s chest.

She lets herself remember the good:

Her father, beaming at her with proud eyes.

Her mother, combing through her tangled matt of hair.

Robb, throwing her over his shoulder gathering after gathering.

Jon, teaching her to throw a punch.

Sansa, sewing her a dress she’d never wear.

Bran, laughing when Arya failed to reach the branches he could.

Rickon, ceaselessly tugging at her skirts 

Years, she thinks. It’s been years since she’s seen them—and now, she’ll never see most of them again. And though she’s known that already, though she’s made her peace with it (she snickers at herself), she will never escape the burning she feels in her heart when she thinks of them. When she thinks of Winterfell.

She’s miles away now. The woods look familiar. The air feels different. 

There was truly no place like home.

 

v.

“She was found lurking about last night, my Lord.”

Arya struggles in the arms of Roose Bolton’s men. 

“She managed to kill three men with this.” Needle is tossed onto the stone carelessly. Arya curses, kicks, does everything she can to fight them off her.

“What should we do with her?”

“Hold her still.”

Arya snarls up at Roose Bolton, her grey eyes wild, defiant. He stares back, unamused. 

“Who are you, girl?”

“You should know. You must’ve got a close enough look at my brother when you cut his throat.” 

There’s a long pause as Roose inspects her face.

“Take her to a room. Find someone to wash and clothe her.”

“My Lord?”

“We must give Lady Arya Stark a proper welcome home.”

 

vi.

Arya thanks the gods for her bath--and for own head. 

But she doesn’t quite understand why she was allowed to keep it. As far as she knows, the Boltons like nothing but dead Starks. 

Perhaps this was just a grooming for the slaughter, she muses. They’d invite her to dinner and  _ then  _ gut her. That seems their style.

“Lady Stark,” a voice calls from behind the door. “I’ve brought you a dress.”

Arya resists the urge to laugh.  _ Lady Stark.  _ That was never her. That would never be her. 

“Come in.”

The woman lays it on her bed before looking at Arya with a warm smile on her face. “Welcome home.” And then, quietly: “The North remembers.”

 

vii.

The dress given to Arya is beautiful, intricate--something Sansa would wear on a special occasion. She feels itchy and strange and all alone in the world as she is escorted to grounds she once associated with joy. 

“Lady Arya. How kind of you to join us.”

“It’s a pleasure, Lord Bolton.” Arya curtsies before continuing in her most innocent tone of voice: “Although I didn’t have much of a choice.”  Roose Bolton’s lips tighten into a very thin, patient smile. She smiles back.

“I understand your time alone must have taken quite the toll on you. We’re glad you’re home safe here in Winterfell. May I introduce you to my son, Ramsay.”

Arya gets her first clear look at the bastard as he steps forward. He’s tall--not as tall as his father, but taller than  _ her  _ regardless. Older, too. Most definitely stronger. The grin on his face almost seems playful, boyish, but there’s something imposing about him anyways. Something in his eyes that wasn’t quite a kindness. 

“It’s an honor to meet you, my Lady.” He takes her hand into his and kisses it, his lips cold and soft against her skin. He smirks still. 

Arya decides she doesn’t trust him. 

“I’m sure your travels have stirred your appetite, Lady Stark. Come, join us for dinner.”

“I’d love to.”

_ Famous last words,  _ she thinks.

 

viii. 

“I must ask, Lady Arya, where  _ have  _ you been all these years?”

Ramsay stares at her with his strange, cold eyes. Arya picks at the bones of her food. 

“I posed as a boy so I could join the Night’s Watch. We were taken to Harrenhal instead. I was Tywin Lannister’s cupbearer. I was hostage of the Brotherhood without Banners. I was held for ransom by the Hound. We went to the Twins--your father can tell you what happened there. We went to the Vale--my Aunt died three days before my arrival. I left the Hound for dead, and now, here I am. Funny how these things work out.”

She looks up to smile. The only person smiling back is Ramsay.  _ He must be thick in the head _ . 

“It… must have been hard.” Lady Walda looks at her with pity, probably. Arya sneers. 

Ramsay ignores his good mother’s comment. “And who taught you to kill?”

“No one.”

“It must’ve been the bloody Hound, if you really did what my father claims you did last night.”

“I merely learned how to  _ survive _ , my Lord. You pick up a thing or two when being passed from captor to captor.” Arya looks up from her plate, locking eyes with Ramsay. “Like how to kill a man like the Hound.”

Ramsay stares back at her curiously. 

“Must we talk of such forlorn things at the table?” Roose interrupts them. “You two will have all the time in the world to talk once you’re wed.”

Wed. The word echoes in her head. Arya hasn’t thought of marrying since she was a child. It never appealed to her either, but at least she had options before. At least her father would  _ never  _ have wed her to someone that would make her unhappy (though he had threatened once, if she kept misbehaving, she would be shipped to the Iron Islands and wed to Theon Greyjoy when he was ready to become a Lord). 

Arya laughs till her ribs hurt. 

_Of course_ , she thinks. _Of course it’s the bastard son of a traitor who killed your brother_. “And here I was waiting to be gutted, my Lord. Or are you just waiting till the wedding itself?”

“Let me be clear, Lady Arya. You will marry my son in a fortnight. You’ll be dragged to the Godswood if need be, but no one will bat an eye.” Roose’s voice is soft: “I can promise you this, though. I would never hurt my daughter by law.” 

_ If you can help it _ .

“I have a wedding gift for you,” Ramsay interjects before Arya can  _ really  _ make an attempt to provoke his father. “I think it will make things more… amicable between us.” 

“Fine. I’ve finished with dinner, anyways.” 

“You won’t be disappointed, my lady.”

 

ix.

Arya takes Ramsay’s arm as he escorts her to the courtyard.

“You sounded proud for putting Clegane down.”

“So what if I am?” Arya lies straight through her teeth. She thinks he knows she’s lying, too. 

_ It’s not really a lie _ , she tells herself.  _ I did leave him for dead.  _

“You must think yourself a dangerous little thing. Sneaking in here. Killing those men. Talking back to my father.” Ramsay lowers his voice. “Making threats.”

“Forgive me for not warming up to him immediately.” She realizes she doesn’t sound too sorry.

“You don’t fear consequence, do you, Lady Arya?”

“I don’t fear anything.”

He grins. 

Before he can say anymore, they arrive at the kennels. Arya simply raises an eyebrow towards him. “A dog?”

“It would be fitting had I known you liked running with  _ hounds _ so much. But it’s better. Go on.” The dogs are quiet, sleeping. Ramsay follows her with a torch.

The last cage is wide open. She realizes it holds no animal at all: just a stinking, filthy man, shivering in the cold. 

It only takes her a step before the man realizes he’s no longer alone and turns to reveal his awful, gaunt face. 

Her eyes widen. Her chest tightens. 

“ _ Theon _ .”

Before he can even say anything in response, she realizes she’s on top of him, his neck in her hands. “No--”

“You  _ traitor _ !” She spits at him as she starts to squeeze--but Ramsay moves quickly to pull her off of him. He holds her tight by the waist, and she thrashes in his arms.  “Let me have him! Let me  _ go! _ ”

Arya’s entire body shakes. Ramsay laughs as Theon cups his throat. 

“Come closer, Reek. Come to your Lady’s feet.” Theon--or  _ Reek _ , as Ramsay calls him, crawls towards her shamefully. Her lip curls in disgust. “Look at her. Get that hair out of your face. She’s to be your Master’s  _ wife _ .” 

He trembles as he locks eyes with her. All his fire, all his joy, all his arrogance--gone. She looks for Theon but finds a shell.

It almost satisfies her. 

“Apologize to her. Apologize for what you did to her brothers.” 

“Arya--”

“Is that how you’re to address the Lady of Winterfell, Reek? Or must I remind you?”

“My lady--” he begins,  _ crying  _ helplessly at her feet. “Please. I’m sorry. I’m sorry.”

Arya kicks him onto his back. Ramsay doesn’t stop her, this time. “Sorry for  _ what _ ?”

“For Robb. Bran. Rickon. I’m--please, my lady. I’m sorry. I’m  _ sorry _ . I’m--” She kicks harder and harder till she hears a satisfying crack. 

Reek cries out into the night. The dogs begin to bark.

“You’re not sorry enough.” Her voice wavers with passion, with hate. 

Arya, sick of the sobbing heap, turns back to Ramsay.

“I accept your gift. I’m going to my chambers now.”

**Author's Note:**

> well!! there it is! i've been working on it for quite some time, and it's kinda garbage but uhhh oh well. act 2 will be the build up to the wedding. hope someone out there enjoyed this.


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